


Guarding The Moments

by nippa56



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:52:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nippa56/pseuds/nippa56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It slams into him, thick and cloying, like the mugginess of a hot day that's waiting for the rain to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guarding The Moments

It slams into him, thick and cloying, like the mugginess of a hot day that's waiting for the rain to come. It bites down hard and he swears he almost gasps at the pain. His step falters, for nothing more than a second. A small pause on his way from the arena to his car. No one notices, but then, no one is meant to. It's not like it's obvious, right? These things never are. 

Matt throws his bags onto the back seat instead of in the trunk and he climbs into the car. He starts it up, and goes on his way. 

The worst thing, he thinks, is that nothing has changed at all. The sky hasn't opened, the seas aren't going to boil and the mountains won't crumble, though he vaguely thinks they should. After all, it's not every day something like this slaps him about the face. His gaze flickers to his cell. He half expects it to ring and for Jeff to be on the other end. He thinks that the sound of Jeff's voice, soft and low and _understanding_ in his ear would be good right now. 

_Hey, man,_ Jeff will say. _I just felt the ripple effect. You okay?_

And Matt will brush it off, because that's what Matt does. He smiles and laughs and goes on his happy, arrogant way and things are just fucking dandy. _No need to worry, Jeffro, I'm doing great, man. In the car, having a laugh, you know how it is._

But even as the words skitter across Matt's mind, he thinks that Jeff would sigh. He'd make it sound like he knows Matt isn't telling the truth, and for once, Matt thinks he might let him be right. Might let Jeff coax it out of him, because for once, Matt doesn't know if his carefully constructed walls will hold up against any sort of onslaught. 

His cell stays silent. Jeff's not going to ring because epiphanies don't resonate between siblings, no matter how close they happen to be. So Matt drives. He's supposed to be heading back to North Carolina - a weekend off, a little down time - but Matt thinks about going back to his house, big and bustling (a small Mecca for all of his friends), and the thought makes his stomach lurch in a way it hasn't done in a long time. 

All those people laughing and drinking, shouting his name ( _Matt! Come look at this, dude_ , and _hey Matt, man, this is a fucking excellent party!_ ), pulling him into lives that he either doesn't care about or cares too much for. It suddenly seems like a bit much. Like going back to his place is inviting something he doesn't want. There're monsters in his closet and if he goes back there, they'll eat him alive and he won't stop it.

Matt snorts softly. God, his metaphors suck. If he starts itching towards penning anything ending in 'oetry', he's probably going to give Jeff a black eye just on sheer principle. His brother may be living in the land of fruit loops for the most part, but Matt only ever wants to visit there in a space suit with extra thick lead lining so the sparkly balloons and glitter won't rub off on him. Jeff can keep his crazy and all his girly fucking emotions. Matt is going to live quite happily in the land of the terminally emotionally stunted and gruff manliness. He's totally fine. 

Except, of course, for the part where he's really not. 

His gaze is fixed on the road, and he can almost feel his body sinking into the familiarity of being behind the wheel. His feet are moving on the pedals easily, hand working the gear shift like they could do it without any input from him at all. It's like his body is slowly freeing his mind up for thinking, and all Matt has to do is watch the road 'cause his body really does have this one dude, don't worry. 

But Matt doesn't want to think. Epiphanies are all well and good, but that doesn't mean Matt has to _think_ about it, right? Just the mere fact that he's had one should be enough. 

So he turns the radio on. A song filters through, the soft tones of some guy, guitar playing a tune that makes Matt's face scrunch up in disapproval. 

_How to fight loneliness//Smile all the time_

Fucking pussy, Matt thinks and twists the radio to a rock station. White Zombie screams at him, and Matt nods. Because this? This he can handle. There's no pretense about White Zombie. It's just Rob and the guys playing some good old fashioned metal. It seeps into his fingers and thrums up his legs as he taps his fingers idly on the wheel and sings a few lines. He's loud and obnoxious, and yeah, this is the way things are supposed to go. An open road, music loud enough to make his teeth grind and not a damn thing on his mind. 

He drives and drives, just following the road, even though he knows he should probably pull off into a motel on the side of the highway so he can sleep. His bones ache and his muscles are pulled tight across his shoulders. Taut like piano wire, or maybe like the rough, discoloured animal hide they used to use on drums and tambourines. Matt can feel the tension in his shoulder blades, thick and heavy, pushing him down and it's only as a sort of after thought, cutting through the thumping music he's got screaming through the car, that he notices his knuckles are white. 

His grip on the steering wheel is so close to bruising that he's sure they're leaving dents in the soft foam covering. He forces himself to let up on the hold and watches as the whiteness on his hands slowly seeps back into pink as the blood rushes to fill the gaps it was squeezed from. Matt feels the car drift slightly as he watches his hands. His eyes go back to the road, and it's empty. An endless stretch of asphalt, white lines passing by in a blur so quick the he can barely see where the breaks are. 

He passes a small scruffy sign telling him that there's a hotel five miles down the road and that they have VAC NCI S. Matt thinks about it. His body has molded into that weird driving haze and it really doesn't need any input from him at all, except for his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders seems a little worse since he relaxed his grip on the wheel. Weird, that. So Matt forgets about driving through the night. He's off course anyway. His turn-off was six exits back and he really doesn't care that he missed it. He's beginning to think that he's gone up and down this damn country so fucking often that he can get to where he wants to go even if he's dumped in the middle of the desert with nothing but a car and a bottle of water. 

He pulls off the highway and onto a small road that he follows for less than a minute before it opens up onto a little car park that's overshadowed by one of the crappiest motels Matt has seen since his indy days. He brings the car to a stop just to the left of the small room that houses the front desk. He cuts the engine and the music that had flooded the car stops abruptly and leaves Matt's ears ringing like they do when he gets to the locker room after a match. 

He doesn't climb out straightaway though. He sits and mulls over the idea of getting himself a room, even though he's pretty sure he's made up his mind already. He taps his fingers against the wheel, and runs a hand through his hair. It's still loose and he can feel it brushing at the back of his neck, the damp ends from his shower earlier have soaked into his shirt making cool air brush against his back whenever he moves. His legs twitch, like they're waiting for him to get out of the fucking car already so they can have a good stretch. It makes Matt think of Lucas, and something twists heavily in his stomach and well, fuck that. Not thinking is what he's supposed to be doing, right? So he gets out of the car and slams the door shut with probably a bit more force than is strictly necessary. 

He strides towards the front desk, yanking the door open and barely managing to keep the scowl off his face at the state of the small room. It's grotty. And Jesus, Matt never thought he'd have to actually use _that_ word to describe a place, but it's the only one that will fit. Rentboys would probably think this place was too dirty, and Matt should just turn around and leave, but there's a spotty kid emerging from a back room and Matt watches as something flickers across his face. Matt bites back a sigh because he can say the words along with the kid, even as they're tumbling from his lips.

"Wow. You're Matt Hardy!"

"Yeah," Matt says. And he only barely refrains from saying, _no wonder you're working here. Your IQ must be off the fucking charts, man_ , but he keeps quiet, suffering through the stammers of a kid meeting someone famous. Matt feels vaguely guilty about having to fake interest, because he loves his fans, but for Christ's sake, can this kid not just fucking get over his pants-wetting glee at meeting him and give Matt a fucking room already?

As expected, Matt has to sign an autograph and when the kid stammers out a request for a picture while indicating his phone with a shaky wave of his hand, Matt agrees because he really does love his fans. And it's not like it's this poor little bastard's fault that Matt isn't in the best of moods. 

Five excruciating minutes later, once the kid has let Matt in on the groundbreaking secret that he wants to become a pro wrestler too ( _keep dreaming_ , Matt had thought and hadn't even bothered to feel bad about it either), Matt is on his way to room number 17. It's a few minutes walk from when he parked the rental, so before he even opens the door, he goes back to the car and parks it in front of his room for the night, because the last thing he needs is to wake up in the morning and find that some little fuckwit has stolen it to feed his crack habit. 

He's got his bag when he stands in front of the door next and he slides the key in the lock, pushing into the room like he's hoping that it's not going to be a complete shithole. Obviously, he's wrong. He looks around and he can see brown spots in the corners where the damp has gotten in and is making a valiant effort to take over the room. There's a brown stain on the carpet near the bed that Matt really doesn't want to think about, grime in the tiny kitchenette and mold in the bathroom. The mirror above the sink has a small crack in it and when Matt turns the faucet on, the water comes out a sickly brown colour that eventually bleeds into something he generously thinks of as 'cloudy'. 

There's not a chance in hell Matt is going to use that water, so mundane things like brushing his teeth and having another shower are out. He goes back into the room and doesn't even bother looking at the bed before he pulls out two towels from his suitcase. He throws them over the covers, and shoves the pillows onto the floor, pulling his pile of dirty laundry out and piling it up at the head of the bed. He'd rather smell his own used boxer shorts than risk putting his head on a pillow that's probably the president and guildmaster for the Your Choice of STD fan club. 

The sheer volume of bodily fluids in this room would probably make CSI guys weep.

He makes himself comfortable on the bed, staring up at the damp on the ceiling. If he tilts his head and squints, he's fairly certain it looks like a space ship. Or a sort of jellyfish. He's not sure, but it keeps him occupied for all of three minutes and really, that's just not good enough. 

He's not supposed to be thinking, not really. Having the epiphany was bad enough, but thinking about it is going a bit far. Especially when Matt didn't ask for the damn thing in the first place. 

Matt likes to think of himself as being fairly honest. If not with other people, then at least with himself. He's made mistakes, sure, who the fuck hasn't? But the thing is, the thing that really makes him want to dig his feet in and just fucking _refuse_ to even acknowledge the damn epiphany, is that if it's true, then everything Matt has told himself over the past few years has been a carefully constructed lie to make things that little bit easier on himself. 

And okay, he understands that, in a round about way. His brain is making it so that Matt can focus on what he's supposed to, like his job and his family, but the thing is, it also means that Matt's been lying to himself and that shit just doesn't sit right. Not at all. Matt knows enough about himself that he can tell when things are off. Yeah, it sometimes takes a while to figure out what the fuck is wrong, but that's not the _point_. Matt knows when he's lying to himself, only now, well. Now it seems like he doesn't know a fucking thing and it feels like things have tilted. Like he's looking at the world through a camera that's sitting at a 45 degree angle and no matter which way he moves his head, things are always a little off. 

He lets out a puff of frustration because seriously, he's _not_ supposed to be thinking about this shit. There's a time and a place for this stuff and it's mostly when Matt already has an answer for himself. His sub-conscious is supposed to work all this stuff out while he laughs and smiles and jokes. That's the way it is. Hours of introspection and self-analysis aren't even supposed to be on the menu until he's got a bottle of vodka in his hand. 

Then, oh, _then_ he'll go to town on himself. He'll lock the doors and unplug the phone and sit in his games room with his most depressing collection of songs on repeat (though none of that pussy boy band stuff. He's got some fucking dignity, after all) and somewhere between Trent Reznor singing about something he can never have and Metallica telling him that nothing else matters, and too much 40% proof, things will sort of shift into place and Matt will fall asleep, sprawled over the couch. In the morning, he'll wake up with a hangover and a vague idea of what the fuck he's going to do to fix the problem. But this... well, this came out of no where. 

There's no vodka in sight and the tension in his shoulders hasn't faded in the slightest, even though he's lying down now. There's a spring digging into his lower back though, so maybe the tension in his shoulders is from the crappy bed rather than from something Matt shouldn't be thinking about. 

Matt moves slightly, but the spring stays in his back and the best he can do is twist until it's not so fucking prominent. His cell is in his pocket where he shoved it when he got his bags. He pulls it out now, twisting it in his fingers. He flicks it open a few times, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hands before he starts to scroll through the numbers. There are over a hundred people keyed into his phone and he's not sure who the fuck half of them are. Vague memories of faces ghost through his head as he skims past names. He gets all the way down to 'z' (though who the fuck Zeke is, he doesn't know) in the list of numbers and then presses number one on his speed dial. 

There are two rings before the call clicks right over to voicemail. 

"Leave a message, it might just save your life," Jeff's voice tells him seriously, and Matt remembers Jeff recording that message. Remembers that Jeff had closed the phone and a wide smile had spread over his face, showing his dimples and scrunching his eyes up. Matt also remembers calling Jeff a retard and Jeff had flipped him the bird and demanded Matt buy him pizza. The whole memory makes Matt's stomach clench again and he realises that the beep sounded ten seconds ago and he's done nothing but breathe into the receiver. 

"Hey Jeff," he gets out, but his voice feels thick. Clogged down with so many memories that Matt can't stand to think about because he's not supposed to be thinking at all, right? He's Saint Matthew of the First Church of Avoidance and Denial. He's going to be the fucking poster boy for Not Thinking, no matter what his damn mind says. 

"Hey Jeff," he says again, trying to get his voice under control, but there's a weight suddenly pressing down on his chest and it feels like he can't breathe. He sucks in a huge gulp of air and closes the phone, cutting the message before he can say anything else. 

He rolls on the bed, shifts until he's sitting up, feet on the floor, still in his boots which he didn't bother taking off, his elbows resting on his knees and he wonders if this is what it feels like to hyperventilate. He's sucking in lungfuls of air, but it doesn't actually feel like he's getting any at all. His tongue darts out and swipes over his lips that are too dry. What the fuck is this shit? One damn phone call to Jeff shouldn't do this to him, but after that epiphany, well. He shouldn't really be surprised, right? 

He braces his legs to stand, because maybe walking around the room will stop this stupid fucking hissy fit his body is having (and hell, if that doesn't work Matt's going to grab what he hopes to god isn't a fucking _panic attack_ by its damn throat and kick it into submission), but his cell vibrates on his bed. A small buzz that cuts through his thoughts and Matt snatches the phone up. Jeff's name is on the caller ID and Matt doesn't know whether to feel relieved or not. 

He thinks about not answering, but his chest tightens at the thought and he's flicking the phone open before he's even finished telling himself to calm the fuck down and get over it. 

"Hey," he says. His voice is still a bit ragged around the edges, but it's not as bad as it was before. 

"Matt?" Jeff says. "You alright, man? I got your message - I was feeding Lucas, so..."

Jeff says it as a sort of apology, like he's sorry he wasn't there to answer Matt's call immediately. Like he's sorry it took him a whole minute and a half to ring Matt back and suddenly Matt feels like laughing. Laughing so hard and long that his chest will have a justifiable reason for feeling as tight as it does, but Matt doesn't laugh because there's something screwy going on with his head and the thought of his laughter turning into a choked sob is just a little too much for him to bear at the moment. Matt Hardy doesn't fucking sob. Matt Hardy is the toughest motherfucker around and he'll chew his own damn leg off before he does something as girly as _sob._

"Matt?" Jeff says again, and there's concern in his voice. Matt knows because it's Jeff, and even if Jeff can't read Matt like a book, Matt can read Jeff. There's nothing Jeff can do that Matt doesn't understand or see or know, and Matt wishes that they weren't so far apart. "Matt, you alright?" he asks again. 

_No, Jeffro_ , Matt thinks. _It's just occurred to me that I'm lonely. And not just that pussy kind of lonely where you're the only one in a room, I'm talking about the other kind. The kind where it feels like you're being crushed all the time. Like there's a huge fucking weight pressing down on you so damn hard that you can't really breathe. My chest keeps tightening up, Jeffro, and I don't know how to stop it. I need you to help me, man. You gotta help me._

"Yeah," Matt says into the phone instead. His voice isn't thick anymore, but that's mostly because it's hardly there. It's thin and reedy and it doesn't really sound like his voice at all. In fact, it sounds like it should belong to some whiny emo kid, so Matt coughs, like there's something stuck in his throat (food maybe, from that sandwich he ate four hours ago) and pretends that that's the only reason his voice sounds so alien. 

"Yeah," he repeats, plastering a fake smile on his face for the benefit of the grime in the kitchenette and Jeff who's a few hundred miles away. "Just wanted to let you know that I won't be back until tomorrow."

There's a pause and then, "Okay." Jeff says it like he doesn't believe a damn word Matt is saying, and Matt's not really surprised because he wouldn't believe himself either, but that hardly matters. 

"Okay," Matt echoes. "Bye Jeffro."

He's about to end the call when Jeff's voice cuts through, sharp and high, almost desperate. "Matt, wait!"

Matt stops in the act of hitting the end button and brings the phone back up to his ear. He can hear Jeff on the other end, breathing a little heavy and Matt doesn't know why. Two words shouldn't knock the wind out of someone, but then Matt remembers that two words knocked the wind out of him, so maybe he shouldn't be so quick to judge. "Yeah?"

There's silence on the other end, like Jeff is trying to think of something to say. Or maybe he's trying to will himself into existence near Matt. It's a stupid thought and it almost makes Matt want to laugh again, but he keeps the urge safely under control and waits for Jeff to speak. As the silence stretches, Matt tries to picture Jeff. He's probably in the kitchen, standing next to the countertop, hip resting against the wood while his free hand picks at something invisible, or is reaching up to tug at a strand of hair. 

Matt thinks that other people would see Jeff's constant movements as nervous habits, but Matt knows that it's just because Jeff can't keep still. He has to be moving all the time. It reminds Matt of a shark, like Jeff has to move constantly otherwise he'll stop breathing. But then the idea of Jeff with a mouthful of razor sharp, constantly reproducing teeth fills Matt's head and that's not a picture he really needs right now. 

"I -" Jeff begins, but cuts himself off. "Just... be okay, man, alright?"

And Matt knows that's as close as Jeff will get to saying, _I'm here if you need me,_ and, _please tell me what's wrong_ , and, _don't be a stupid motherfucker and keep this shit bottled up, okay?_

Matt smiles. It's barely a quirk of his lips and it's never going to spread across his face in much the same way that he's never going to tell Jeff what's really wrong. Jeff knows it too, because Matt can hear him sigh down the line, and Matt says, "Sure, man," before he hangs up and turns his phone off completely. 

He toes his boots off, putting them within easy reach of his feet so he doesn't have to touch the dirty floor in the morning when he gets up, and then he lies back on the bed, looking at the ceiling and watching the lights from passing cars on the highway chase the shadows across the room. 

 

_How to fight loneliness  
Smile all the time  
Shine your teeth to meaningless  
And sharpen them with lies_

_And whatever is going down  
Will you follow around  
That’s how you fight loneliness_

_You laugh at every joke  
Drag your blanket blindly  
Fill your heart with smoke_

_And the first thing that you want  
Will be the last thing you’ll ever need  
That’s how you fight it_

_Just smile all the time  
Just smile all the time  
Just smile all the time  
Just smile all the time_

 

How To Fight loneliness - Wilco

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Emily for the beta. Also, though I wrote this as a strictly gen piece, it can be considered pre-slash. That, however, is an interpretation I will leave completely up to you, dear reader.


End file.
